Once More Unto the Breach
by Cordelias-Soliloquy
Summary: When nine-year-old Skye is found by Agent John Garrett and taken under his wing, she feels she's finally found her place in the world. When she meets the young, troubled Grant Ward, however, she begins to question her new mentor's methods. Eventual Skyeward.
1. Kindling

"You know, kid," Agent John Garrett growls, "You're really starting to annoy me."

He always says that, but this time Skye thinks that he might actually mean those words. She watches with wide brown eyes as her mentor and savior unloads a rifle and a tactical bag from the passenger seat of his truck. He tosses the bag to her and she catches it with both arms, the breath knocked out of her by the force of the throw.

"Trust me, kid, you don't want me to regret taking you out of St. Agnes'. I don't care if you're a natural tech genius—"

"My name is Skye, and I was curious—" Skye halts abruptly, biting her lip, at the look on Garrett's face.

"You're my problem now. As your S.O., I call you whatever I like." He slams the vehicle door, starts trudging through the thick underbrush. "I guess I should be impressed you managed to sneak into the back of my truck unnoticed. As long as you're here, you can at least make yourself useful."

Skye looks up cautiously through dark lashes, as cautiously as a rabbit peers at a fox through a thicket. She lugs the heavy bag over her shoulder with a grunt. At nine-years-old, the bag weighs nearly as much as she does.

Her fear fades—the fear that Garrett was getting tired of her like everyone else has—like the Brody's had. She practically skips through the foliage after him. He casts a long shadow behind him, and Skye squints into the fading sunlight to take in her surroundings. The air tastes of pine and dirt on her tongue when she breathes deeply—fresh, rich earth. The new sights and smells make her giddy and embolden her.

"So," she presses, "is this where you go when you're not on a mission, or training me?" Skye asks, her voice shaky as she stumbles over a fallen branch in her path. "I've—I've never been camping before." Her eyes lock on the rifle. "Or, you know, hunting."

"Let's just say," Garrett drawls, amused, glancing at the girl over his shoulder, "I come out here to work on a pet project of mine." When Skye looks confused and, for once, has nothing to say in response, Garrett adds, "You said you were curious. That's not really why you're here though, is it?"

Skye's eyes flick to the ground. She kicks at clogs of mud and red clay distractedly, pulling the bag higher on her shoulders. "I just—you've been gone for a long time. I was scared you'd forgotten about me." The light is in her eyes and Garrett turns back around before she can see his face clearly, but she swears she saw him smile.

"We'll just forget about your lack of obedience and consider this part of your training. Remember what I told you when I took you out of that orphanage, kid: don't depend on anyone. Not even me. I'm not here to babysit you, or be your friend. Got it?"

Skye nods swiftly, swallowing the lump that has formed in her throat. She's wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand when a loud bark jolts her. A dog comes bounding through the tree line from a clearing up ahead, kicking up leaves in its wake. Skye crouches on the ground, encouraged by Garrett's look of recognition.

The dog sidles up to her immediately, nuzzling her arm with his wet nose. Skye laughs, rubbing the dog down, her fingers brushing through its sleek, dark fur. "Hey, doggy," she grins.

"This is Buddy," Garrett says. He looks around, eyes narrowing. "Just be on your guard, kid. If Buddy's here, then-"

Skye lets out a scream before she can stop herself. A boy, probably in his early teens, seems to appear out of nowhere. She didn't even hear him approach, but suddenly he's standing there, holding a gun to Garrett's head. Skye rises to her feet slowly, fear making her knees buckle under her. Garret doesn't seem worried. He looks calm, smug, even.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't blow your head off," the boy hisses.

Skye bites back a yelp as Garrett reels around, knocking the gun out of the boy's hand and shoving him to the ground. "One reason?" Garret sighs. "Who's going to teach you how to shoot and disarm properly if I'm dead?"

The boy scrambles to his feet, eyes wide. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself, noticing Skye for the first time. His face pales—he looks like he's seen a ghost. The boy's look of alarm does not go unnoticed by Garrett.

"What-what's she doing here?" The boy asks. "She's just a kid. She shouldn't be here."

Skye, mildly offended, crosses her arms. This whole thing has made her uneasy. She looks the boy over hesitantly, taking in his disheveled appearance, his too long hair and his too thin face.

"I said I'd be back, didn't I?" Garrett smiles slyly. He looks over at Skye with surprise, as if having forgotten she was there. "Oh, her? She's is one of my recruits, like you. She's just a little girl, and already she's stronger than you, Grant Ward. Though, I can see that your time out here has at least toughened you up a little."

The boy, Grant Ward, nods, frowning. "The first few weeks were rough—then I realized my thinking was limited." He gestures to the tent and the various pots and pans and camping equipment around him. He looks proud of his work.

Skye glances between Ward and Garrett, unsure of what she should do or say. If Garrett thought it was necessary to leave this boy in the wilderness for weeks, months, then he must have a good reason for doing so. Still, she cannot shake the sudden chill that rolls over her in a wave.

Garret eyes the pistol in his hand almost curiously. "I was going to teach you to shoot today, but," he smiles at Skye, "this kid decided to hitch a ride with me. Change of plans. I'm good at improvising-you'll learn that about me." His smile stays in place, but his eyes hold no light. "She's about your sister's age, right? That's not weakness I see, is it?'

Ward's face is a flipbook of emotions—flashing before Skye's eyes. Anger, pain, sorrow—it's hard to witness. Even though she doesn't know him, and even though he held a gun to her mentor's head, it's hard for her not to feel a pang of something akin to pity when she watches him.

Ward's features harden into a mask of indifference. "I don't even know her."

"Good. Then it should be no problem for you to ignore her. I'm betting it was hard enough to find enough food to feed yourself, much less Buddy. Imagine how hard it will be to share with this girl as well. Unless, of course, you don't care about her, you let her fend for herself. Then she shouldn't be a problem for you."

Skye takes a sharp intake of breath, reaching out for him unconsciously as Garrett grabs the bag from her shoulders. "You're leaving me out here?" she asks wildly. "But—you can't—"

"I told you, kid, you can't depend on anyone. You can't depend on me. Maybe, if you're still alive by the time I come back, and Ward here hasn't crossed you off, you'll learn not to disobey my orders again. If you want to be an agent, and you want to follow me, there are things I need to drill into your thick skull." Garret turns his back on the two, heading back through the foliage.

"I'm sorry," Skye calls out in desperation. "I'll do better. I can be better. Please don't leave me. Don't give up on me." She's crying now, but she's too upset to feel embarrassed. Her stomach drops like when she was informed coldly and simply that she was to be sent back to St. Agnes that horrible, horrible day.

Skye cannot believe that Garrett would leave her alone with this boy-this boy who had threatened to shoot him. She collapses on the ground, her tears halting, the energy of them being transformed into a heavy, deep numbness. She's used to this-she has to get over it, she's done it before. Fear is an icy hand at her throat. But when she looks up, afraid to look at Ward, afraid he'll be aiming a gun at her head, he's crouching beside Buddy. She cannot hear what he's saying to the dog, but his tone sounds comforting.


	2. Spark

The girl is kicking at clods of dirt on the ground, scattering rocks and sending clouds of dust spiraling. Ward watches her out of the corner of his eye. His skin breaks out into a sweat all over, a blooming, nauseating heat that greets him like an old friend. He's terrified—no, he's angry. He knows what fear feels like, what it sounds like, smells like—fear has always been more of a clammy coldness, a sinking feeling in his gut, a tensing of muscles and a bracing of skeleton. Fear is the way the light fixture shakes when someone comes pounding up the stairs. Fear is that voice giving him orders. Fear is a clenching fist. But anger—anger is a prison, a house with dented walls to use as kindling.

He's angry at Garret. He's angry with this girl, too, though he does not know her. He does not like being angry—not since the levee burst inside of him that day at military school, he saw red, and the next thing he knew his face was raw and stiff from the blistering heat of a fire, his back freezing from the winter wind, and the smell of gasoline sharp in his nostrils. He cannot afford to be angry anymore, not since he's been having to survive in the wilderness on his own, and one slip up, one more break, could kill him.

This is a test. Grant reasons with himself. He shuts down his thinking, shuts down himself—like he always did when Maynard was at his worst. Buddy's fur prickles under his touch, jolting him back into reality. The girl stares at him. She's been speaking to him, apparently, unbeknownst to Grant.

"Are you listening to me?" The girl asks. She sounds almost incredulous.

Grant shrugs. He does not want to speak to her. He tilts the bill of his baseball cap downward.

"We could follow John's footprints, follow the tire tracks," the girl continues. Her voice falters. "Maybe—"

"It's pointless," he answers.

"Don't you want to get out of here?" The girl takes a step towards him, her little fists trembling at her sides. "Look at you, you're—you could die out here. This is crazy. I'm going to follow the tracks."

"It's too dangerous." Grant feels that pang of anger in his chest again. He can feel the heat, the icy hand of dread curling its fingers around his throat, at her words. "You can leave if you want, kid. I won't stop you. But I'm here for the long haul." He feels stupid explaining himself her.

"It's Skye," she corrects curtly. "You—are you saying you actually want to be out here?"

"I have nowhere else to go." The words come out in a single breath, with more force than intended. "This is my best option."

Skye's features harden. "John said you had a sister. You have a family. Don't—don't talk to me about having nowhere else to go. I would—I would give anything to have a family."

"You don't know anything about me," Grant growls. "This is what I wanted. This is what I chose. This is better than what I had before. Yeah, it's hard living out here, but if the job was easy…" He trails off.

"It wouldn't be any fun," the girl finishes in a whisper. Grant flinches like he's been struck.

The brief silence that follows is only broken when a flock of birds disturbs the trees, causing Buddy to release a single warning bark in protest. Grant straightens up, patting Buddy on the back.

For the first time, Grant allows himself to look the kid over. She looks cold; she's not dressed properly for camping, for the harsh Wyoming night about to fall. Unconsciously, without thinking, Grant reaches for his duffle bag, for the extra jacket tucked inside. His arm freezes in place, outstretched to the girl with the jacket clasped in his hand, when he looks at her again and see's her-he see's his sister, that little girl, shivering outside with the collar of her oversized hand-me-down t-shirt pulled over her mouth to protect against the smoke in the air, embers like demons rising behind her. Her eyes are filled with fear.

The jacket drops to the ground. He cannot do this again-he cannot survive it. Tiptoeing around Maynard, his parents passed out on the couch in a drug-induced comatose state, was one thing. He could have survived an eternity walking on eggshells, of enduring beatings, by himself. Watching them suffer, watching them hurt—his younger siblings, helpless without him to guide them, shield them—that was something he could not take anymore of. But that weight-the weight, the burden of that responsibility is something he cannot endure again. He cannot see that look in his brother's eyes, his sister's eyes, again. The look of fear in their eyes, even after—face burning with shame—he said he was sorry for what he did to them at Maynard's request-that was not survivable.

He won't do it again. He can't. This girl, Skye, will undo him. Garrett knew that when he brought her here. She'll undo everything he's learned so far thanks to Garrett's tutelage. She'll be a weakness—she'll bring him down. "You should go. It's getting dark."

"Go? What do you—?"

"You won't last out here on your own. Maybe you can still catch up to John."

Skye's features twist into a mask of confusion. "But you said—you said it was pointless, dangerous—"

"You can't depend on anyone." Grant echoes Garrett's words, and they sound no less cruel coming from his lips. Grant stoops over, picking up the rifle from the ground where he left it. He turns his back on Skye, eyes focusing on the darkening sky above him, his gaze roving madly, as if searching for some kind of reassurance in the face of indifferent nature.

He waits until the sounds of sneakers against dirt, the hesitant pause in the footsteps, the small gasp, the frantic, muttered words of self-comfort, fade. When he finally turns around, Skye is gone. She's gone just like that—like a ghost, never there. If only everything could vanish as easily, like it never existed. But Skye does exist.

Grant swears Buddy's gaze is almost accusatory when he looks down at the dog. He whistles, urging the dog forward, and shoulders his rifle. "Wanna hunt, boy?"


End file.
